Scissors to cut away the mask
by Crimson-Eyed-Angel99
Summary: Discontinued : - Everything happens in Paris. A phantom out of a lair, a scissorhanded man fleeing his past, a justice-obsessed policeman, and a jackal of a lawyer, brought together through chance. NOT yaoi. Crossover fiction. Rated T for slight alcohol and drug references.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Phantom of the Opera or Edward Scissorhands. Or William Shakespeare. And anything else I might mention.

Aren't the similarities between Edward Scissorhands and Erik, the Opera Ghost, a bit too identical?

It helps to have seen both the movies, though some reference may be made to the POTO book later.

(divider)

The fools.

And after Christine and that-that _fop_ floated off in his boat, what was Erik to do?

The Phantom had smashed the mirrors and vacated his "lair" immediately, forgetting even to snatch his mask as he did so. Doubtless, that silly blonde girl, Madam Gire's daughter, had found it by now. He sighed quietly, dark eyes hooded by his bangs. Moving was always a trial, but a forced movement that was unplanned could cause more than it's fair share of disarray.

He'd simply have to find another place to occupy, preferably within the theatre. He would NOT leave and search the world outside for a dwelling, simply because one of the star singers had gone mad and drifted off with some silly vicomte. Perhaps then, since he had utilized the basement already...

His gaze turned upwards to the ceiling and he smirked faintly. Where once he had been housed beneath the feet of the ballet rats, now he would watch their heads like little spinning dolls from above.

Erik's footsteps turned, heading towards the staircase leading to the roof. There was a spacious attic leading from one of the doors going up; while he could return to the basement in time, he could live within that attic's confines. Sometimes it was used for props or scenes, but mostly for the storage of things the opera house rarely used. Not even the romantically-involved couples of the opera house ventured up there, rendering it fool-proof for his own use.

It was dark and quiet as he entered the room. A perfect setting for his temperament, the phantom mused as he glanced around. The roof was a bit beat up, shingles beaten enough to let lingering light filter into the attic, but otherwise dark and peaceful.

-scuffle-

Perhaps not so peaceful. The phantom's eyes darted to the noise and he strode forward, Punjab lasso already in his hands. This was unfortunate, but whoever it was had no right to be--

It was a thing.

No, no, that wasn't right, Erik corrected himself as he lowered himself tensely to it's level. Being seen as a 'thing' himself for so many years reminded him not to make quick judgments. But even so...

what WAS it? Only one eye peered up at him, it's pupil black as pitch.

Metallic glinting objects were held in front of the curled-up form. The phantom could not discover if they were knives or whatever, merely sharp, pointed objects. He drew back immediately.

"Who are you?"

It was silent, raising it's clinking hands in front of it's face again. Erik frowned at the oddity of the mechanisms, evidently not weapons. Were those... scissors?

What an strange creation.

"Get up." He found himself ordering tersely and the thing-_person-_did so, revealing itself to be a man. Or the image of a man, in any case. His unnaturally pale face was covered in scars, doubtless caused by his scissor-like hands. Erik stared at him, waiting for an answer, and the creature stared back, not supplying one.

Finally the phantom broke the gaze, whirling around, his black cape swirling with him with the hope of intimidation.

"I'm staying here."

"All right." It replied amiably, yet without any kind of emotion in it's tone except humility.

There was a long pause.

"I'm Erik." There was no reason not to tell the creature his name. It might come in handy later to know. There was a nervous clinking and then quiet words.

"They called me Edward."

Erik couldn't really see the point in this relationship, but as long as 'Edward' didn't cause trouble or drag the police up to the attic, they both achieved their ends of complete solitude.

(divider)

There was no organ.

The thought hit Erik like a lightning bolt the next morning, having spent the night in a coffin for some obscure opera, probably one by the silly Shakespeare fellow. How would he play without an organ? How would he write his masterpieces without his crafts? Those fools would still be in the basement, tearing it up, and he would have no way to preoccupy himself besides watching the comings and goings of those normal people below. He'd go slowly mad, much like his ever-mute companion. Either Edward was terribly insecure or couldn't think of anything worth mentioning. Erik suspected a little of both.

Not to mention neither had questioned the other's deformity. There was tension and curiosity, though neither was mentioned. Curiosity had killed Joseph Buquet, so the phantom was not about to be the first to pursue the line of questioning. It was obvious that Edward was not a completely typical human being. Erik knew there were people who attempted such things as creating humans, but the finished product was a shame.

To come so far and then curse the man with scissors for hands, forever cutting and destroying whatever he touched.

It was cruel.

"What are you thinking about?" Came the quiet voice at his side and he looked over at curious black eyes framed by a stark white face. Black. He would never get used to that, not if Erik had to reside in this attic for a thousand years. Black eyes simply were not normal.

He couldn't hate Edward. He was far too much like a child to hate.

"Shambled thoughts. I have no organ."

Edward blinked, processing this slowly.

"Your organ is like my ice?"

What Edward did with ice, Erik couldn't imagine, but he nodded, assuming some kind of semblance between the two. Edward nodded, looking faintly unhappy.

"Why is the organ important to you?" The pale-faced man asked, scissors clinking nervously. Ice reminded him of Kim, even though it had caused her pain while he was creating for her. Erik was in pain as well.

"Because of Christine. Because she made it alive again."

Christine, Christine... she'd been the pretty singer, with long curly hair. He had seen her only once, and she hadn't seen him, crouched up among the rafters. Edward remembered all the talk that filtered up to him about her. How she disappeared, how she loved Raoul, how she was haunted by a ghost... a monster.

"Erik is the phantom." Edward stated quietly, thought about the notion for a minute then amended it. "The phantom who loved Christine, the angel of music."

"Indeed." His companion replied bitterly.

"I loved someone. I made her an angel. But then... accidents..." He raised his 'hands' and clicked the scissors together delicately, as if cutting the fragile ties of the relationship he and Kim had enjoyed.

"I had to leave." He finished, by way of explanation. Erik's face was emotionless, yet he still seemed to be struggling with some emotion behind his poker face. Abruptly, the phantom stood.

"I'm going down. I left... something I need down there."

When he returned, one half of his face was covered by the solid white mask once again. Erik felt safe behind it; it was always easier behind the mask.

Edward said nothing, but Erik could tell that his companion looked a little sadder.

He wondered why.

(divider)

It is not yaoi. If you see that in here, you have issues, for there is none. It will not get yaoi. I don't even know where I'm going with it at the moment; I just thought it would make a cool crossover.

Any suggestions? They're a bit OOC, and any suggestions as to character changes would be appreciated. Edward's hard because... well, neither of them is the most talkative of people.

I really don't like my writing on this by the way. It's weird. Oh well.

So, review! Give ideas! And maybe I'll continue.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own PotO, E.S. or Les Miserables.

Okay, no matter how many people I introduce, and I WILL try to keep the number down to... just three different books/movies casts. I'll try not to go beyond that, and it will not become random as far as I can help it.

To the two reviewers I currently have, thanks for your input!

And for those who do not know of Javert, he is a policeman who is very strict and adheres to the law like some kind of superglue, because that's the way he was raised. He's justice-obsessed (that is, until Valjean screwed him all up, BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY). And yet somehow, he's awesome. So yeah. Whatever I do with him, he's not really BAD per se.

Ignore my mom saying that he's THE CREEPY GUY over there. Eheheh...

(divider)

It had been a very long week. The attic had been quiet throughout the daytimes, when Erik wrote pages and pages of lyrics to occupy his mind in the absence of an available organ. With Christine being gone, his angst flowed automatically into the pages like a trickling stream.

He'd composed a brief sonnet to her hair somewhere around here...

Edward, sensing his companion's tension, had backed off visibly, staying at the other end of the attic doing... something. Erik wasn't quite sure, and the two were not close enough, either physicallyor relationship-wise, for himto wander over without reason and stare at his companion's handiwork. All he heard from that area as he worked was the clink of scissors and the occasional ripping sound.

He was certain Edward thought of him as a maniac; for when the correct words for his lyrics would not come to him, Erik would storm around like a madman, muttering dark words that never rhymed quite right and yet were close enough to provoke him to anger. The dilemma was usually solved by either finding the perfect word or continuing until the next instance he had to eat.

Eating was another problem. Since neither of them were technically to exist within the opera, Erik had to go outside every day to buy food. Why only Erik? Because the conversation to decide had gone poorly in his favor.

"Don't you eat?" He had asked, almost rhetorically. Edward looked up innocently.

"Yes."

"Do you buy food?"

"No."

"Are you a thief?"

" . . . " Either Edward hadn't been sure what a thief was or he didn't wish to say that he was. Erik sighed mentally. The man behaved like a guilty child.

"Why don't you pay for the food?"

"How?" The question was phrased so simply, yet the implications were much deeper. How could any grocer look atEdward's dangerous hands, even when they held out money, and not run screaming for cover? Erik could remember angrily how they had reacted when his face had been revealed. No, the public could not, would not, accept Edward's disfiguration.

It had been then decided that Erik would buy the food for both of them. It was, needless to say, odd to remember to have to buy for two people instead of simply himself.

However,being out inthe worldwas easier since he had found a couple aging cloaks from some long forgotten opera in the trunks of the attic. The hoods pulled low over his face and, though he still wore the mask, it was far from visible. No one recognized what he was hiding, and his attire was accepted because of the bad weather they had.

All in all, things were peaceable, almost tranquil in Erik's new setting.

But all good things must come to an end.

Erik was working diligently on a new song. For once, it was not written for Christine, or the destruction of Raoul, but a song that Erik thought he could actually fit into an opera, if he andhis organ were ever reunited.

"Are you going to go out?" Edward asked, walking over from his corner and hesitantly interrupting the phantom. It was approaching the dinner hour and getting later. Erik shook his head distractedly.

"No. I have to finish this. The cloaks will cover your hands if you don't want to wait."

Edward was silent, expression thoughtful for a moment.

"All right..." He turned and left the room, tugging one of the cloaks on over his headwith difficulty. Erik worked on, hardly noticing the time slip by.

(divider)

Inspector Javert was not having a good day.

It was raining, the streets were slick with the mud of Paris and just as crowded with the scum, milling this way and that. And he was watching them all.

Some carried their heads low, focusing only on the pavement in front of them, too downcast to even consider crime. Some, the elite, carried their heads like racehorses at a show, proud under their umbrellas of dismal black. And some... were hiding. Javert eyed a likely suspect wearing a too-large, somewhat torn cloak. It covered much ofthe figure'sbody, making it almost impossible to tell the gender or any distingushing characteristics. The figure moved over to the open-air marketbooth, looking down at the assorted breads.

Then...

A knife darted out, stabbed one, and retreated into the confines of the cloak. The figure immediately began to walk away.

"Thief!" Javert yelled instantly and ran at him. The head came up like a gunshot and Javert caught a glimpse of a ghost white face before he gripped the thief's arm tightly. It felt like steel beneath the coat, yet the thief didn't fight back.

"You took that bread with your knife, I saw you. Five years in a detention cell for that."

The thief was silent. Maybe he knew he deserved this, Javert thought as he moved the prisoner's hands behind his back to be tied. Maybe he'd realized he was nothing more than a washing from the gutt--

--SCISSORS?

(divider)

It wasn't until nine or later that Erik realized Edward had never come back. The phantom had finished his lyric, finally, and now wanted to see if there was any food left. In his song-crazed enthusiasm, he hadn't realized that Edward hadn't ever entered.

It wasn't hard to miss, since the other was so quiet. Perhaps something had detained him...?

Erik walked to the doorway and stepped out onto the ladder, glancing around the lower level cautiously. There was no sign of Edward.

Hm.

He descended the ladder and took the back way out of the opera house. There was no chance Edward would be in the red light district, so Erik ruled out that straightaway.

But there was the market, if that was still even open.

Where could a man with scissors with hands possibly conceive to hide himself?

Erik rose a hand to his head as if to ward off a coming migraine. He didn't want to go THERE. He'd been trying to avoid those buffoons! And yet, with Edward's usual method of obtaining food, that was the most likely place he would be.

Unhappily, Erikbegan slowly but surelyheading in the direction of the police station.

(divider)

"'E's a spectacle all right."

"What'd you'd think they'd pay to 'ave a look at 'im?"

"How much do they pay that Cassius bloke? We can probably get double or nothin' for this in 'is old circus."

"He is staying in jail until suitable labor is found." Javert's voice bit crisply through the other policemens' words like an icy wind. Javert himself sat at a bench against the wall, filling out papers. He glanced up at the pale-faced man inside the cell.

"No papers... amazing you've even gotten into Paris, Monseiur "Scissorhands". The public officials who let you in should be courtmartialed. How long have you been in Paris?"

"I was created here."

"I don't want your lies. Who are your friends? Who supports you here? Do they have papers for you?" Javert fired off the questions like a machine gun, going through a mental checklist and adding up the years for imprisonment should they not be answered correctly.

"I don't have papers..." Edward was getting confused, trying to think of papers he must have had. He remembered cutting up papers, but those can't have been important since they were blank.

"Who can vouch for you?"

"Vouch...?"

"Who do you know? Where do you live?" Javert's voice was rising to a level of frustration Edward did not want it to exceed.

"I live with Erik, in the opera house."

"_'Erik'_?" Javert queried, obviously skeptical, yet writing all this down. Edward nodded.

"I can vouch for him." A new voice stated and Javert turned to face it. A soaking wet figure stood there, cloaked in black with a startlingly white mask covering one side of his face. He looked innately familiar and Javert's suspicions were immediately aroused.

"I can pay his bail as well." The figure said calmly. "My name is Erik, and I am his caretaker. His papers are here."  
He handed Javert a handful of damp papers that clearly stated Edward Scissorhands was a Parisian and had been since the moment of his birth, retained all traveling rights, and had a guardian named Erik-- thelast namewas smudged, but it did not matter.

Javert's eyes narrowed in staring at the papers. This was far too convenient and yet... when he had the papers and the bail was paid, there could be no case against Scissorhands or "Erik".

He unlocked the cell grudgingly, glancing at Edward's 'hands' as he did so, then at the very strange guardian.

"His hands make him a thief. If I catch him again, he will not be set free so easily."

"I will see to it. Good night, Monseiur Javert." And the black-cloaked figure and scissor-handed man headed out into the rainy night, leaving Javert with only one question.

_How does he know my name?_

(divider)

Yay, Erik went out without hiding his mask! And... that will probably never happen again. And it's late. G'night.

Edit: Excuse my spelling of Monseiur! I have never studiedFrench, or really tried to spell it before, so it may bewrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See the others.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

(divider)

"I am sorry."

"Don't speak of it. Do not steal and stay away from that inspector." Erik said in a tired command. It was cold, boding of an early winter, out in the Parisian streets. To make it worse, the lights of the Opera Populaire were all out and they would have to sneak in the back way carefully to avoid some off-duty ballet rat.

"Monseiur Javert?" Edward questioned, bringing Erik back to the moment. "He is a... _different_ man..."

"A suspicious man. A man who can and will pry into others' affairs. Avoid him." Erik commanded again. Javert was a danger, especially since Erik had seen the flicker of recognition in the man's eyes.

He had been there, the night of the Great Disaster. He had guarded one of the doors and Erik was certain the man had not seen him before the unveiling, when Christine had ripped his mask away. But after that...

The night was both a blur and startlingly clear. Erik remembered fleeing underground, to the basement, but there was a moment before he could drag Christine away, when one of those foolish police staring had caught his red-tinted gaze.

The policeman had glared back with equal fury as he made good Christine's and his own escape.

That policeman must have been Javert. The ferocious countanence and eyes hard as diamonds was unmistakeable. It was the face of a man who was like a bloodhound, never giving up the chase, even till death. Erik was willing to wager that even now, when curious, the inspector ventured again to the basement of the Opera Populaire, searching for clues to where the phantom may be hiding.

He could not afford to be found. Edward, walking beside him, looked worried but was silent. His mouth opened, then closed, as the scissor-handed man changed his mind. Finally Erik couldn't take the tense silence and sighed.

"What is on your mind?" He asked the other. Edward looked up unhappily.

"He was asking so many questions... and I didn't know what to say. He asked me where I lived..."

"And you said?" Erik prompted, mentally praying that Erik had not specified anything.

"I said that I lived with you, in the opera house."

Erik felt a wave of sudden relief.

"You did not specify which opera house?"

Edward blinked, then shook his head. "Should I have?"

"No, no, you did fine. I do not believe Inspector Javert shall be investigating inside the Opera Populaire as a first choice. In any case, we will not be found." Erik stated, feeling almost... happy about having eluded the police through his companion's slip of mind. Edward looked curious now, an expression that shone like a beacon on his usually-unexpressive face.

"Why do you not wish to be found?" He questioned politely. Erik hesitated, then decided to state his crimes in the simplest manner.

"I murdered two men here in Paris, attempted the murder of another, and kidnapped a girl. I am not a well-liked opera ghost." He looked over at Edward, who paused with obvious nervousness, then started, trying to explain the story with as much detail as possible.

"I loved Kim, but she loved Steve. Then, she loved me, but I couldn't love her, not-not in the way she needed..." The man's hands snipped at the air distractedly, communicating his point. "-I hurt her, and her brother. I didn't mean to!" He stared at Erik, innocent fervor emblazened in his eyes.

"I loved them. I loved Kim, so I would never hurt her. Then, there was a fight and Kim killed Steve, but it was with my hands... so it is my fault, not hers. She went outside and told them all that I was dead then. If they find I am not dead... they will kill me." Edward finished and lowered his head unhappily.

"A complicated story." Erik supplied quietly, opening the door to the back entrance and stepping inside, Edward quickly following suit. The two did not talk more for the necessity of silence, for fear of waking one of the sleeping actors or actresses. Edward had just climbed the ladder, having perfected the technique of managing it with his scissor-hands long ago, when there was a scuffling from the darkness.

Erik's eyes flashed to the dark, widening as something began to take shape. He leapt up to the ladder, hesitating for a mere moment and meeting a pair of very startled blue eyes.

He heard the intake of air, that would almost undoubtedly be followed by an ear-shattering scream and Erik braced himself, unable to stop it.

Instead, he heard the low hiss of air rushing out in relief.

"Monseuir le Phantom, please try to return at more reasonable hours of the night. The other girls will suspect a burglar."

Erik blinked. This was new. He cleared his throat quietly.

"My apologies young madam Gire. I shall try to confine my exploits to more reasonable hours in the future."

"I thank you." She replied tersely, turned, and went back the way she'd came. Erik watched her go, then hurried up the ladder into the attic.

No, with Inspector Javert undoubtedly going searching opera houses and Meg Gire wandering the corridors of the opera house at night, things were getting all-together too complicated.

Erik was asleep almost before he had stretched out on the floor.

(divider)

Edward had been painting all morning. Due to the previous night's fiasco and confusion, thoughts and memories had conflicted in his mind; creating pictures of dark cells and stormy nights. It would be easy enough to paint out such an idea, even if such a large picture would require many rinsings of the brushes when he changed colors. "Finger-painting" is what it would be called, had he fingers. As it was, the man secured paintbrushes to his scissors by means of a weak glue, and then dipped the instruments into the paints he had available. The paintbrushes were easily pried off once he had finished and he didn't mind the few hardened glue pieces they left behind. It was a small prices to pay for what was usually a hobby that required hands.

But today, Edward was missing the noise. Almost constantly since his companion, the temperamental Opera Ghost, had moved in, Edward had been constantly serenaded by lyrics. They were not conformed to one genre, so Edward knew lyrics from everything; from the pain of loneliness, to the spells Christine's eyes could cast, to the zebras who galloped on African plains. The Opera Ghost, when composing, was anything but ghost-like and therefore impossible to ignore.

Edward chanced a glance at the still-sleeping phantom. Odd as it was, even after the confessions of why they were hiding that were given last night, they still knew nothing about each other's deformities. Edward knew his companion was scarred, but did not know how.

What sordid past accompanied him?

The pale-faced man was disturbed from his musings as there was an ominous clacking and someone began to open the door to the attic. He stared at the action in horror, unable to decide whether to leap into hiding, conceal Erik, or (heaven forbid) try to stop and possibly injure the person.

The door opened and a blonde girl stuck her head in cautiously.

"Monseiur Phantom?" She called quietly, then her eyes landed on Edward. Instantly, they widened in surprise.

"Are you a guest monseiur?" She questioned and Edward shook his head.

"I live here. My name is Edward."

"Oh. Hello, I'm Meg Gire." She responded with automatic cheer, but something in her seemed almost put-out by his being there. Edward couldn't help but wonder why. She continued speaking, apparently not having noticed that Edward had what looked like a favorable collection of sharp knives which he was leaning back on.

"Anyway... will you tell monseiur le Phantom-"

"His name is Erik." Edward interrupted quietly, feeling bad for interrupting the girl. She stared at him.

"Is it really? I suppose only Christine really knew that much. Well, can you tell monseiur Erik that Meg will bring up food for the both of you since they provide it amplely for the ballet rats. They will not miss it, and my mother, as he knows, would have approved."

Edward caught the hint of a hitch in her voice as she spoke and his eyebrows knit together slightly.

"Your mother... she is gone?"

"Almost three months ago now. She always said I should move on quickly, and never dwell on her death. It was a long-term illness that brought her down... but I never saw her suffer. My mother was private like that, and didn't-didn't show her pain for pity." Meg's voice faltered at the end of her explanation, hesitating. Edward dipped his head in a form of apology.

"I'm sorry. I've made you unhappy."

"I'll be all right." Meg said firmly, tensing in her determination not to be weak. "But why isn't the Phan--Erik up? He should be by now. I was going to tell him that policemen have been swarming all over the theatre this morning, and some inspector was searching for an 'Edward Scissorhands' or his caretaker 'Erik'." She looked at the sleeping phantom curiously.

"I'm not sure I want to take my chances on waking him up though... I might end up dead." She glanced at Edward, who shook his head quickly and lifted his hands slightly.

"I cannot, I might kill him by accident mademosielle Gire."

Her mouth dropped open, adopting a small 'o' in shape. She looked back down at Erik, forcibly distracting herself from Edward's hands.

"Then it's up to me." She reached out and shook the phantom's shoulder violently.

"Eriiiiiiiiiik..."

One angry eye outside his mask opened and glared at her.

"Insolent girl, to spoil my slumber, do not disturb the phantom. I warn you now for your own safety, leave me in peace, Gire..."

Meg clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, thought for a moment, then replied in a sort of dangerous sing-song.

"Erik, I know, no morning person, would do well to heed me. Inspector Javert lurks here to find you, I believe this hurts your safety..."

"Why did you not say so?" Erik demanded, instantly upright and straightening the clothes he had slept in. There would be no time to change.

"Come. Let us meet this Inspector Javert."

(divider)

Don't ask why Erik slept for most of this chapter...

Should I have an Erik/Meg pairing? (they're already OOC... by all rights he should have taken her head off for waking him up... yeah, apologies for that...)

Review, if ya feel like it, you know. But if you don't... my updates are iffy anyway. I should be reading Lewis and Clark journals right now, as I have 280 pages to get through before the quiz tomorrow. Procrastinating is baaaad...


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: See others.

I'm getting lazy updating... I haven't even uploaded the previous chapter as I'm typing this, and yet on I go... you'll get it eventually... if I actually have anyone still reading this conglomeration...

(divider)

So far, there had been no sign of Scissorhands or his eerie caretaker, 'Erik'.

This bothered Inspector Javert to no end. The policeman paced around the basement with unbridled frustration, as he usually did when annoyed. He had been CERTAIN, so certain, that he would find the duo living in the basement, within the lagoon/cave that had once housed the Opera Ghost, and for a short time, Christine Daae.

Yet it was as abandoned as always; the "ghost's" quarters having been left as they were found originally, in hopes that the articles would lead to the Phantom's new hiding place. There had been no luck finding the elusive murderer known as the Phantom of the Opera.

Or so he was called by the media. It had been said that la Phantom wore a half-mask of white, but it was not uncommon for mimes and other theatre types to wear a mask. Perhaps Erik was eccentric in the manner that he enjoyed the rakish devilry that the mask he wore gave him.

Javert paced faster, accidently treading slightly into the water in his fervor. He cursed quietly at the chilly water that splashed onto his trousers, glad to have something to be angry at.

_Darn that man, who, where, and WHAT is he?_

"Inspector Javert." An imposing voice called from the stairway and the inspector immediately turned his attention to the figure in the stairway. Erik stood there in the shadows, the stark white mask concealing half of his face. The inspector doubted if he ever removed it.

Javert noted mentally that the man seemed at home in this dark, damp place; a surprising oddity for someone who had spent his time in the opera house, assumably not spending any considerable amount of time in it's basement.

"Monsieur Erik." Javert greeted, nodding his cap slightly to the other man.

"You wished to see me."

"Yes, I did." Javert walked over to the organ, running a hand along the wood casually. "Do you play, Monseiur Erik?"

"I have." The other man replied coolly, moving a bit more into the roo though still within the shadows. The candles were not lit, yet a few helpful torches had been brought in, casting dark shadows on the walls. Javert nodded, glancing down at the instrument.

"The 'Phantom', as the media called him, once resided down here and played this very organ." He glanced up at Erik confidentially, as if he knew that neither of them believed the frequently-exaggerated headlines.

"Or so they say. But you'd know all about that wouldn't you." He continued. The question was calculating and Erik's reply was measured.

"I know no more than anyone else of the proceedings. Christine Daae was the center of the occurance and if you wish to question her, she now is married to and lives with the Vicomte de Chagny." The phantom said. He succeeded in keeping his voice level and without the biting tone at the end that he usually would have relished tacking on, when speaking of the silly fop, Raoul. Javert appeared disappointed by this response, and it was now that Edward appeared. The man's pale face poked around the stairway's corner cautiously, then came into the room quietly, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

"Hello, Inspector Javert." The scissor-handed man greeted and Javert nodded to him.

"Ah, I was wondering when I would see you Monseiur Scissorhands. Tell me, does Erik come to play the organ often? He seems very familiar with this area."

Edward blinked, confused by the unexpected question. "I... I don't know... I don't believe so."

"Where exactly do you live in the opera house? Have you an occupation here?"

"Stage hands." Erik supplied, saving the other man from having to quickly create an occupation or location for them. "Edward is a stagehand and I light the torches before the shows."

It was true, Erik reflected. He had lit quite a few torches in the past, almost making a torch of the entire opera house on the night of the Disaster.

"I see." Was all Javert replied. He was looking at Erik's mask with the harshest of gazes, attempting to penetrate right through the white material with his inquisitive eye. Abruptly, the subject was changed, as was Javert's mood. Suddenly the gentleman was very brisk and curt.

"I have business to attend to. Good day to both of you, gentlemen, oh, and Monseiur Erik-"

He stared at the phantom, a half-smirk forming..

"I would very much like to know the reason behind your mask. Beware, because I will not give up until I know if there is a connection between you and the assumed-deceased 'Phantom of the Opera'."

It was with this bold statement that the inspector strode out of the room. Edward looked over at Erik worriedly but the phantom's eyes were darkly neutral.

"Christine said she could never care for a murderer. But I am hard pressed to recall if ever there was a man I wanted to Punjab more."

Edward ventured a nervous smile at his companion's coolly-voiced infuriation. He was inwardly greatful to Christine for whatever comment she'd put forth that convinced Erik not to kill anymore. Sharing an attic with a homocidal phantom was not truly confidence-inducing.

"Come, this place is too full of emotion." Erik said bluntly, turning to head up the stairs. Edward hesitated, looking around.

"Monseiur la Phantom... lived here?" He walked over to the remains of the smashed mirrors, his scissor-hands hovering over the frames but not touching. Erik's footsteps stopped on the stairway but Edward did not hear the other man turn.

"Yes."

Edward wandered over to the wall; finding a collection of paintings, all of one girl onstage, a life-size manniquin, even a canopied bed, draped with black. Then there was, of course, the organ, and candlesticks everywhere. It looked like a funeral to Edward, both a funeral and a celebration of romantic obsession.

"Christine... she was frightened?"

"Yes."

"By you, or by your love?"

There was a long silence from the stairway, almost sullen in nature.

"I don't wish... to speak of it." The phantom said darkly and Edward heard the steps begin to ascend the stairs again.

He went after them quietly, taking a final glance around the room. Inspector Javert had his work cut out for him. Edward was living with Erik and still had no idea of his past... how much chance did Javert have of discovering anything?

Erik was so good at hiding, so many secrets, behind his mask and his words. Edward wanted to envy him, but the only thing that came out of his heart was sympathy.

_I wish that I could hide my difference as well as you can..._

(divider)

Meg was waiting upstairs when they got there. She looked from one face to the other and found no cheer there.

"Did he realize--?"

"No, ma'msille Gire, he did not realize. Yet your near-constant presence in the attic may lead him to believe that something is amiss." Erik retorted semi-sarcastically, his mood far from cheery. Meg blinked at him.

"Well, I was just trying to help... monseiur." She added the last portion quickly, not wanting to offend him. Erik shook his head and went over to the wall to dig through his lyrics for the one he was currently working on. Meg turned her attention on Edward, who merely linked at her.

"I found your painting." She said simply.

Were Edward able to blush, his pale complexion would have burned red.

"O-oh... did you- what did you think?" He ventured hesitantly, inwardly preparing himself for the worse.

"It's sad." Meg replied and grasped his upper arm, far enough away from his scissorhands to be safe but close enough to lead him. Edward came along with her to his painting in the back of the room, where it hung on a lonely wall. There were gashes in it from when he'd gotten too eager and tried to go too fast, but it was still nearly complete.

There were bright circles nestled in a dark blue sky, the circles being vivid colors that leapt off the canvas. It was a celebration, an excitement, a joy even. That had been when the phantom had moved in and Edward had gained his companion. He'd been overjoyed not to be alone.

Then Edward had been jailed.

The small pinpoints of stars in the sky behind the lights had become cold and black. Black, bold lines had encircled the border of the painting like jailbars. A grey star had been added in the center, the same size as the bright lights, but it was a dark grey, and had a tail after it that implied that it was falling.

Meg released his arm and pointed at the grey star directly. She looked at Edward expectantly.

"What happened?"

"I don't wish to discuss it." Edward said quietly. Meg sighed, her shoulders rising and falling tragically. She ran one hand through her hair unhappily, massaging her head as if to ward off a headache.

"You and Erik... you're both amazing oysters."

From across the room, Erik sneezed. Meg turned to him, then glanced back to Edward.

"I'll go back down now. Be careful, that inspector will be coming back again and again more than likely. He's very suspicious of both of you."

"Perhaps the police are not as stupid as they seem here in Paris then." Was Erik's only comment. Meg shrugged, darting out the door and leaving the attic in silence.

(divider)

A couple weeks later...

"Sir, I've found it!"

The officer ran into the police station, waving a paper in the air, his breath visible by the cold wind that swept in the open door.

"Close the door!" The jail warden barked immediately and the officer slammed it shut, the cold disappearing slowly as the fire warmed the room. It was starting to snow outside for the third time that week and the temperature was disturbingly low. The officer stamped the snow off his feet and walked over to Inspector Javert's desk.

"Sir, I found the file on Erik Deversio. He came from Persia, the file does not list when, and was once a killer for the sultina in that region. He was supervised by a man named Daroga, aka Nadir, aka 'the Persian', who once saved his life and--" The officer's reading broke off as Javert snatched the paper from the man, too hungry for information to put up with the officer's slow reading skills. His eyes flew over the document, nodding in satisfaction as he finished it.

Murder... fleeing justice... this was as good as a life sentence for the man, if he was not also convicted as the Phantom of the Opera. Erik had underestimated Javert in a massive way.

"And the man, Scissorhands?" He questioned. The officer shrugged dismissively.

"We have one Scissorhands reported as dead some time back. Some sort of love triangle and both fellows lost. The girl, Kim Jaquseson, lives in Paris still."

"Find her. Scissorhands is an uncommon name, and his condition is even more so. She will remember him. Arrange a meeting as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

Javert smiled, finally happy with the case. Justice would be done. This would not become like the Valjean case so many years ago. These men would come to justice at the hands of Javert.

(divider)

"This is utter foolishness!" The Phantom ranted angrily, crossing his arms tightly. He had blankets wrapped around himself, still managing to keep a pen and sheet of paper for writing lyrics near for his use. Despite the phantom's best efforts to avoid it, the winter chill had finally gotten to him.

"Only fools don't get colds." Edward chided quietly, trying not to smile at his roommate's predicament. Erik glared at him darkly, biting back the first comment that arose in his head. Edward was created from a machine, of course he wouldn't get a cold!

But Erik had no such immunity. The opera ghost was absolutely miserable and sick of the illness. It had persisted for over three days now, rendering him unale to move secretly and freely as he wished. He had to stay under blankets, by orders of the terrifyingly-maternal Meg Gire. Edward would go and report to her if the opera ghost even attempted to shed his cocoon of blankets and go do something else. The scissorhanded man had moved the blocks of ice he'd collected to the other side of the attic, so they wouldn't affect the atmosphere and make Erik's cold worse.

Thanks to his cold, Erik now knew what Edward did with ice and was suitably impressed. Not that he actually voiced this to the other man, but it was an impressive skill, what Edward did. The carving of various figurines and symbols from ice was a facinating process.

But when Edward wasn't creating, and Erik had no current inspiration to entertain himself with, the phantom got deathly bored.

It was on one of these terrily boring days that Erik was sipping some nasty, 'healthy' concoction that Meg had boiled up. Truly putrid stuff, but it was supposed to be good for colds, or so Meg said.

Suddenly, the door opened and the girl herself came inside quickly, her face a unusual shade of pale.

"Monseiur Erik, Inspector Javert's downstairs with eight men. They-they have a warrent for your arrest."

The man stared at her coolly, then stood, shedding the blankets into a pile on the floor. He walked unsteadily over to the wall and took down a sword hanging there that was meant to be decorative. He drew it from the sheath and glanced at Meg. She stared at him, then shook her head mutely.

"That won't work. They-Erik, they brought Christine. They want her to identify you as the opera ghost."

Erik did not drop the sword. But all hope of fighting them was eclipsed by that one name and his unspoken promise not to kill.

Christine...

Christine was here. To see him.

But she was here to find the Opera Ghost.

Would she betray him as such?

He'd soon know.

(divider)

Christine was panicky, and kept having to glance over her shoulder at her sullen husband. Raoul was anything but pleased with this arrangement. He had taken an immediate disliking to Javert, and approved even less of eight policemen taking his wife off to identify a man who had once kidnapped her.

No, this wasn't a good day for the Vicomte de Chagny at all.

Erik appeared in the doorway of the lobby, dressed in a heavy coat and hat. He glanced over the group with no outward signs of recognition except of Javert.

"Inspector. I see you've returned."

"I told you I would. Vicomtess," Javert addressed Christine, motioning for Christine to come forward. She did, somewhat nervously, trying not to look at Erik.

"Was this the man who kidnapped you during a performance at this opera house, the night of the Great 'Disaster'?." Javert questioned. She looked flustered, opening then shutting her mouth as she looked at Erik.

"I-I can't be exactly sure..."

"Ah, that is right. He was disfigured in such a grotesque manner, and you could only be certain of his identity if the mask was removed again." The policeman turned expectantly to the phantom. "Well, off with it. Unless of course, you have something to hide, as the phantom did."

"I will not remove my mask. It would make no substantial difference." Erik said firmly. Javert glared at him, shifting to a more aggressive stance.

"Sir, you are being given an order by the Paris police, remove your mask."

"Parisian police or the queen of England, I don't care , but I will not remove my mask. Something I'm sure Christine is greatful of."

"How dare you address her in such a familiar fashion!" Raoul exploded angrily, glaring at the phantom. Erik blinked, then gazed at him bemusedly.

"Ah, the fop is here too..."

"WHAT did you call me!"

And it was while Raoul was fuming that Erik made his move. Ducking through the group quickly, he threw open the doors, bolting into the busy street. He could take the entire group on one at a time, but group fighting... he would not kill with Christine there, and Raoul. She would hate him forever and though she was married, some part of Erik still didn't want that.

So he ran.

(divider)

...yes, and that was out of character. But I want to upload this already! Please review, or I'll have no idea whether anyone's reading it or not...


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, but belong to their individual blah de blah blah.

Sydney Carton! He's French too! Yipee! Translation: I can put him in here and nobody can say he's horribly out of place and what am I thinking.

Okay, yeah, I haven't updated in at least two years. But… I'll try to satisfy some curiosity. BUT! If you read this, review. Because very few people are and I don't know if anyone reads it.

(divider)

Erik didn't run for long before he ducked off the streets and onto a sheltered doorstep down a small alley. The police went whooshing by a few seconds later, Javert at their head, blowing whistles and waving nightsticks. It was all Erik could do not to roll his eyes. They'd missed him entirely, without so much as a curious glance.

"What are you doing on my doorstep?" A voice behind him asked and the phantom whirled to face a bemused-looking young man, rather like a jackal in appearance, with dark brown, curly hair. Erik's eyes narrowed.

"I had need of it for a moment."

"Evading getting tossed in jail by that justice-obsessed inspector, eh?" The man noted astutely, peering out into the street.

"Well, come in then. My name's Sydney Carton." The man stepped back inside, holding the door open. Erik hesitated for a moment. Despite the fact that it was frightfully chilly in the Parisian streets; he felt ridiculously warm, probably due to his illness as of leaving the Opera House. Refusing this fellow's offer certainly wouldn't help matters of his health. So, almost reluctantly, the phantom stepped inside. Sydney quickly closed the door behind him.

"I've got hot water boiling for tea... or perhaps you prefer wine?"

"Wine at this hour?" Erik said incredulously and the other man shrugged, smirking faintly.

"Sometimes the time of day doesn't really matter. But tea it is then." He disappeared into the apartment's small kitchen and Erik glanced around the dwelling. It had a rather sparse and unfurnished feeling to it, as if the owner had never fully cared or entertained enough to make it acceptable. Sydney reappeared with a cup of tea, handing it to Erik.

"So monseiur, what causes you to flee la police?"

Erik stayed neutrally silent, choosing instead to sip at the tea, a decision he quickly regretted. Obviously Sydney didn't prepare tea very often, as it had a bitter taste to it. The other man had a small glass of wine in his hand, swirling it carefully.

Ah, now that Erik thought about it, he could remember something about the name Sydney Carton. He'd played a part in a trial, as an attorney, a few weeks ago. Apparently, he was a lookalike for the defendant, a 'Charles Darnay'. Darnay had been acquitted of the charge and had gone on to marry some young girl, whom Carton was friends with. It was quite a complicated affair and Erik was sure that the gossip columns had all been proclaiming it would end in tears.

"Or you can not answer me. I would enjoy a name of some sort being divulged. I'm of a very curious nature in that way."

"Devero." Erik said simply. Sydney appeared satisfied.

"Good then, monsieur Devero. Tell me, will you be wishing for a coach to return you to your place of origin?"

For a moment, the phantom considered the possibility of the coaches making annual runs to Persia, doubted it, and nodded.

"Yes, I will require a coach, if you have access to one."

"I do. And the destination?"

"The Opera Populaire."

"Oh. You're not mixed up in this whole Christine Daae bother are you? It's been in the--" There was a pounding at the door and Sydney glanced at it, then back at Erik keenly.

"Would you like to hide in a closet or something, as befits a fugitive of justice?"

Erik stepped into one of the other rooms, closing the door behind himself just as Carton opened the door. Angry voices were quick to begin shouting, mainly Javert's.

"Citizen Carton, a fugitive was described by your neighbor as hiding in your doorway and then coming inside at your invitation."

"Amazing what Mrs. McGrady sees from way over there."

"As the Parisian police, we have a right to search your flat. Stand aside."

"And my right to privacy? What about that?"

"What do you believe this is, the States? You have no right to obstruct justice." Javert stated and the sound of a scuffle ensued, something being thunked loudly against the door a few seconds later.

Javert flung open the door immediately, gun at the ready and faced

...an empty room. The curtains blew daintily in the open window's breeze. The inspector raced to it, mind already leaping with possibilities but all he saw was a myriad of footprints on a crowded street. The phantom could've leapt out the window and run anywhere without being noticed in the crowd. Javert cursed quietly to himself, turning away from the window in disgust. He glanced down at Carton from where he'd decked the younger man. He had one hand holding his head, the other trying to push himself off the floor unsteadily. There was an open bottle of wine on the tabletop and Javert could guess that the drink was also interfering with the other man's senses.

"Take him into custody for obstruction of justice. I want every other available patrol looking for the phantom!"

The policemen leapt to follow his orders and Javert smirked to himself. The man couldn't hide forever. Justice would seek him out.

(divider)

This was not a happy turn of events for Erik. The black-cloaked man had concealed himself on the rooftop after hurriedly clamoring out the window. This was certainly NOT a comfortable or warm habitat for him, but as long as Javert vanished...

He spotted the group of policemen escorting Carton away and his face darkened. No matter, the man had been foolish enough to let him in, he probably deserved what he got. He didn't have time to worry about Carton, Edward was still sitting back in the attic of the Opera house… but they probably wouldn't bother him there.

It was Erik who had kidnapped Christine. Edward had killed Kim's 'boyfriend' by mistake and in self defense, Javert couldn't prosecute him for that. However… they could nail the scissor-handed man as an accomplice to murder if Javert put his mind to it. And the policeman would put his mind to it.

Looking down at Carton again, Erik realized a lawyer would be much more effective than simply killing all his pursuers. Leaping off the rooftop onto the crunching snow, he swept after the policemen and knocked the two away from where they were 'escorting' Carton to the police station. One frantically scrambled for his gun and the phantom decked the man without even drawing the sword that still hung on his belt. Sydney looked down at the first man lying on the snow in pain, then to the other, then finally to Erik. He lifted a corner of his mouth in a smirk, looking like a somewhat worried scavenger confronted with a bigger hunter.

"I'm a fervent supporter of the fugitives from justice coalition." He offered jauntily. Erik fought the urge to smack the younger man and brushed by him.

"I have no skill in law."

"But plenty in force. Usually that means you don't need skill in law." Carton observed, looking down at the policemen on the fresh-fallen snow.

"I cannot work aboveground."

"And why is that?"

Erik turned; his eyes burning a hole into the Frenchman's slanted ones. "The wickedness of my face is too much for the public to bear. They respond much better to fops and jackals."

"Am I the latter?"

"Since you are not a vicomte, yes."

"You've something against Raoul de Chagny then? I knew you must be mixed up in that mess with Christine. She's a pretty doll I grant you but women have a habit of asking too much of their men… or perhaps men give too much without being asked…" The man was slipping into reverie, Erik could recognize the signs. "Perhaps we are always willing to pay the highest price without looking for an alternative…"

Erik could feel his frustration growing. "You must prevent Javert from arresting Edward Scissorhands or myself."

"'Scissorhands'? How does one come by a name like that?"

"By being unacceptable to society."

"Oh." Carton appeared uncomfortable, the words 'great, another one' written on his forehead. "And where am I to stay, since I've just been ousted from my home and exist as a fugitive from justice?"

"You're a lawyer. You have money to spare. Try one of the seedier motels." Erik replied without emotion. The last thing he needed was to bring the talkative wino jackal into the Opera Populaire's attic. It was cramped enough as it was and he doubted he and Edward would even be able to stay there for much longer.

"That I do. But I recommend you leave town. I am not so fantastic a lawyer as to have you out of the woods by nightfall. And you _did_ commit murder."

"I returned a man too curious for his own good to his Maker."

"And what of Phillip de Chagny?"

"I returned _men_ too curious for their own good to their Maker."

"Do you even _believe_ in God?"

"Against all odds." Erik replied and promptly left the lawyer standing alone in the snow as Erik leapt the fence leading into the cemetery, his cape flaring out behind him like a black raven. Carton shook his head, amazed. To think that the phantom believed Sydney could dig him out of this hole… it was a certainty that the man believed in God, because he was placing all his hope in a miracle. Acquitting Darnay of treason charges had been much simpler.

However, the white-masked man would be traveling while ill in winter, a poor idea at the best of times, which this wasn't. And, given his speech about 'Scissorhands', he would probably be accompanied. Sydney supposed the pair probably wouldn't even get out of Paris. He had to work fast.

What was his motivation to even take this case? He pondered the question as he started walking towards the nearest inn where they would hopefully have a tankard of good wine and a room of blithe meaningless conversation. He had little hope of being paid, gaining acclaim, or even being recognized as a decent member of society again. On second thought, he wasn't a member of decent society in the first place, with his drinking habit. What need had he of money anyway? As long as he had enough to buy more wine to forget Lucie, he would be happy. How pointless that aspiration was, but how fitting, he mused as he pushed open the inn's door and was greeted by a cheer from the bar.

He would start the case soon.

After the first three glasses were gone, he would think better. Think, even of a way to help two guilty parties, branded as social outcasts, to escape Javert's definition of justice.

Oh, that's why he was doing it, he realized after the fourth glass. Because they were him, in a way. Turning, he began explaining this with enthusiastic arm movements to the man sitting next to him. The man ignored him and eventually Carton gave up.

The phantom was deformed, Scissorhands probably had scissorhands, and Carton was invisible.

All that added up to one conclusion:

Why shouldn't he be their lawyer?

(divider)

Review. C'mon, just so I know someone is reading it…


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See other chapters.

Yay Kat Eddie! Yay Adi Sagestar! Yay Theater Raven! Yay Kiseki no Tenshi! I'd shower you all with confetti if I could. D

I muchly appreciate the reviews. They made me amazingly happy. Whee

I would appreciate the drawing Kat, but you don't have to (since moving can be a trial, I dun wanna make things more stressful on you). I'm actually trying to make a comic called 'ScissorMask' out of this fanfiction on That's part of the reason I came back to writing it.

And now, onto the fanfic!

(divider)

Edward had sat in the attic for a favorable span of time, first listening to Erik's boots glide down the stairway, then to silence until shouting and cries broke out. The angry shouting continued for fifteen minutes and he could hear more footfalls plunging around downstairs.

None of them came up to the attic, though whether they hadn't seen the stairway or thought there was no one there since Erik was gone, Edward wasn't sure. He waited until the footfalls died down and a semblance of calm had returned to the opera house. Timidly, he went towards the door and cracked it open.

Absolute stillness.

He descended the stairs like a cat—no, no, that wasn't right. Erik could descend the stairs like a cat, insinuating himself into the movement. Edward moved like a chipmunk, moving a few feet quickly and timidly before coming to a complete halt and looking around for enemies.

None of which appeared.

Leaving the stairs, he stepped out into the hallway, feeling more than a little trepidation. It had been ages since he left the attic without knowing what he was going to get or if he would return safely. Since the incident with Javert—had it only been a few days ago?—he'd been even more terrified of leaving with no destination in mind. He forced himself to keep moving, moving down the long hallway until he came out in the opera's main room. A man and a woman were inside, the one trying to comfort the other in vain.

Edward stared.

The woman was Christine, her head bolted up the instant he stepped into the room. She had the most pristine and unblemished skin Edward had ever seen. For a moment, he realized he could still feel envy. With his own notched, scarred face that Kim had barely been able to stand, he must appear hideous to her.

Christine had a way of making those around her feel ugly.

The man next to her, however, was everything a woman could want in a man and Edward doubted he'd ever been shamed by being less attractive than his angelic counterpart. An earth-bound Adonis, with golden hair and the same perfect complexion as Christine, he lifted his perfect chin and looked down his nose at Edward.

"What do you want?" The man barked.

"Raoul, please!" Christine admonished and the man, Raoul it seemed, toned down his ferocity. The black-haired man said nothing for a moment and this seemed to anger Raoul further.

"Have you found him yet? Who are you?"

"I'm not a member of the police…" Edward said, moving forward, his hands clinking lightly. The sound drew Christine and Raoul's attentions downward. The dark-haired girl sucked in a breath that echoed painfully in the cavernous room. Raoul, on the other hand, cursed and drew his sword, another sound that echoed. Edward looked at him, baffled.

"I don't want to fight—"

"Are those your _hands_?" Christine asked in a horrified whisper and Edward nodded, ashamed of them as always.

"Everyone keeps saying they know a doctor who can help me, but no one will tell me who he is." He replied softly. Christine continued to stare and Edward began to grow even more nervous under her stare.

"Did you see Erik?"

"Yes." She replied hesitantly, dragging her gaze from his hands to his face. She looked frightened, as if she worried that Erik had sent him after her. Raoul snorted, sheathing his sword.

"The phantom again. Bah, I long for the naivety I held when I believed he was a figment of Lottie's imagination. But no, he returns to haunt her again and again…"

"Raoul…"

"Don't hush me. Now we are visited by this creature, what am I to think of the phantom's manipulative methods? Certainly you can't expect me to respect him!"

"I don't, but please calm down." Having calmed her husband, she returned her attention to Edward. "If you please, what brings you here? Erik ran off into Paris, taking the police with him. They may return and find you if you linger though…"

Edward nodded, knowing she spoke the truth. She wanted to help everyone come to a happy ending; he could see that yearning in her eyes. He recognized it from having seen the same thing reflected once in Peg's eyes, in Kim's eyes. Beautiful—meaning normal-- people wanted to strive to make sure the misfortunate were just as lucky as they were.

He'd learned from experience that their dreams were rarely realized.

"I came looking for Erik… I'll go find him." He murmured, starting to back out of the room. Raoul looked pleased at his action, Christine looked dismayed.

"But they'll arrest you if they find you."

Edward smiled back at her with a gentle hopelessness in his gaze.

"I've been there before. It's not so bad."

His creator's good etiquette books had always said that lying was a terrible habit and no right-thinking gentleman would ever engage in it, but Edward thought it would be all right just this once. She looked so dismal and forlorn, even when her brave husband stood next to her like a masthead.

He walked out of the performance hall calmly, feeling a tinge of pride in himself for the defiance of the etiquette books' instructions about lying. It was small but there was something intoxicating in it. Of course, his possessiveness in dealing with Kim had been something never mentioned in the books, but that was another matter all together.

As he pushed open the door, he felt a snowflake drift to his nose. It was snowing, something he hadn't realized before. And apparently Erik was out running around in it with the police on his trail. Edward was about to turn and follow the direction the freshest tracks led when a blur of gold caught his eye.

A blur of gold wrapped in a white cape, like a fluffy angel.

It wasn't Erik, which went without saying.

But it was someone that Edward knew far too well and couldn't bear not staring at. He opened his mouth to call out but felt a whoosh of air at his side before he could. He managed to half-turn to face the intruder before he heard the soft hiss.

"We must leave Paris immediately."

"But—" Edward was not given to protesting, but he had just seen Kim! Was he to abandon her without even having spoken to her after their long absence? But Erik knew nothing of Kim or Edward's emotions, only that they must move and they must move _now_. Eyebrows knit in indecision over his dark eyes, Edward looked hopelessly in Kim's direction as she rounded the corner without having seen him. His black-cloaked companion was growing impatient.

"Come, we'll make slow enough going as it is without delays."

Edward forced his legs to follow, his body to turn and follow Erik's stormy path through the snow. The phantom kept talking, voice dark and heated.

"I've secured a lawyer's services; a drunkard but there is worth in him. Christine and her precious husband await Javert's return with bated breath no doubt, but the inspector will be hounding about the city for a while longer before he gives up." Abruptly noticing his companion's hesitance to move, Erik looked back at him.

"We don't have time to dally."

"That was Kim…" Edward muttered darkly. Erik hesitated, half of his face looking vaguely surprised while the mask half betrayed only an enigmatic scowl. Edward wondered which the man's true emotion was.

"I always assumed you were American in origin. Anyway, you cannot betray yourself to her or the police will find you and kill you. You've said as much yourself."

"I would find it worth it for her, if it didn't cause her such trouble."

"'Let pale death come as her kin and I'll greet it as a bosom friend for her sake.'" Erik mused. "It should be in an opera."

"I'm not a lyricist." Edward murmured, still pining over Kim's face beneath the swirl of gold hair. She was the golden haired counterpart to Christine, if Erik knew that, he could understand.

And sympathize.

What Edward failed to grasp was that those whom the world despises are little given to sympathy.

The black-cloaked phantom pressed onwards, silently cursing the appearance of Kim. Her memory would slow Edward down and they wouldn't make it out of Paris by nightfall. They could return to the theatre, if the police weren't still there, but it was too great a chance. Where could they hide? Erik hadn't been out of the theatre's confines to search for a living place in so long…

"Where are we going?" Edward asked sullenly. Obviously seeing Kim had deadened his usual perceptive demeanor, otherwise he might have realized his companion was contemplating that exact question with increasing frustration.

Erik didn't reply, looking across the street, hoping he'd see something useful. A pub, a group of private homes, a dilapidated hotel… the hotel might be promising, but it was the first place the police would check. He closed his eyes, head pounding. This was far too hard to fathom on an empty stomach and an unhealthy constitution; in addition to being chased by the police for alleged accusations of a crime that had taken place months ago.

The phantom turned to speak to Edward, to ask the scissor-handed man if he had any friends in the city (now _there_ was a vain hope), and found him gone.

Perhaps he'd guessed that Erik didn't know where they were going and had left to find his own way. The other man's perceptivity could work both for and against him, Erik mused.

Snow was still falling, piling up gaily on rooftops, the streets, and Erik's cloak. The man's face turned sour with annoyance. Fine then, he'd find a hotel that was gullible enough to take a fistful of bills under the table in exchange for no questions asked. Yes, that was what he'd do.

Spinning on his heel, Erik started towards the darkened hotel when he felt the clink of metal on his shoulder, ripping his cloak.

Whirling away, he narrowly missed carving his face on the sharpened scissors. Edward was standing there, one 'hand' lifted where it had been set on Erik's shoulder. His eyes wide like two pieces of coal in a snowman's face, mouth open slightly in surprise.

"I…"

"What are you doing?!" Erik demanded, shocked by the man's appearance

"Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, what are you doing?" Erik said, calming himself slightly, tugging the torn portion of his cloak up to cover his shoulder. Edward allowed himself a slight smile and said hesitantly, like a child who thinks he has good news for his parent but isn't sure:

"Kim will let us stay with her."

(divider)

I like this chapter. Hee


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: See others.

Oh sheesh. I just read Phantom (by Susan Kay) for the first time this week and I apologize profusely for errors in this fanfiction. I should go back and edit, but I'm too lazy… I'll try to fix it in these later chapters…

Search for "ScissorMask" at SmackJeeves if you want to see the (very slowly progressing) comic version of this.

Sorry this update took so freaking long. I wrote a novel for NaNoWriMo during Nov. and that took time, and there's Monarchy, and the fact that I don't actually have an outline or general idea of how I'm going to complete this fanfiction… sorry. Thank you for all the reviews though. They keep me writing on this.

Don't worry by the way, there's no more series coming in. Epponine (LesMis) might enter if I so deem necessary, but that's not another series...

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Kim's house idolized mirrors. In another situation, Erik might have capitulated on this and spent hours tweaking with them to show whatever he wanted. He'd done so as a child and if he'd been planning to stay at Kim's house for any length of time, he might have been unable to resist the temptation to do so.

But this wasn't a situation like that.

Particularly since Kim hadn't known he was coming.

Edward, in his excited but hesitant manner, hadn't fully explained who Erik was and why he wore a mask or why they needed to stay at her house so suddenly. When it came to Edward, Kim didn't care, but when it came to an eerie, masked man…

Erik could feel her eyes burning a hole into his mask from across the table, Edward shyly sipping at a glass of coffee from a straw and oblivious to his companion's discomfort.

"So, who are you again?" The girl asked with what seemed like characteristic bluntness. She retained all the audacity of a teenager but the looks of a woman of twenty-five. Erik didn't want to explain again but had no choice.

"Edward and I need somewhere to stay for a short while." He said politely, feeling a headache pulse with exasperation.

"But who are _you?_" Kim demanded with childlike petulance.

"I am an artist." Erik said, reveling in the honesty of that remark. Artist summed up but didn't go into his skills in singing, drawing, composing, stonemasonry, architecture, and ventriloquism. Kim accepted this explanation with glee.

"An artist? Really? I've always admired artists; do you have an exhibition anywhere in Paris? I'd love to go see it." Erik had no doubt she would want to see it simply to tell everyone there that she knew the artist. Society loved celebrities and knowing one would put Kim in better social standing. He wasn't sorry to disappoint her and was about to do so when Edward spoke quietly, entering their conversation for the first time.

"I'm an artist too." Edward said, feeling slightly put out at her newfound interest in Erik. Kim turned to him with an appreciative smile. "Of course you are." Edward returned her smile with a warm one of his own and Erik stood abruptly, leaving the table and the room. He stood out of sight in the hallway, mulling over their situation.

The girl didn't like him. She was too curious, and he would put money that she would demand that he de-mask before the night was through. Taking off his mask would result in his and probably Edward's eviction from the residence. He closed his eyes, letting the problem prickle through his mind.

There was still the hotel to try…

"What?"

The phantom blinked. Edward's volume wasn't the surprising element of his exclamation – that was still at a reasonable low—it was the anxiety in his tone that did it. Erik turned, listening to the conversation.

"Someone contacted you about me?" The scissor-handed man asked quietly, in his hesitant way.

"Yes, an inspector. Yes, Inspector Javert! I-I think that's what it was. He wanted to know about all sorts of things, and said you were on the run. He was asking me questions—questions about, well, you know, _then._"

"But you told them I was dead after that." The man's tone was wrenched, as if someone were twisting a damp rag, wringing out the emotion from Edward's voice. "That's why I had to leave. You didn't tell them I wasn't, did you?"

"They learned you weren't when you left. The snow stopped and… I couldn't live there anymore so I moved here." She sounded guilty and selfish at the same time, her tone subdued. "I was very alone and everyone hated me for… for caring about you."

Erik flinched. It was hard to tolerate, Edward's being loved by Kim so badly.

"And I thought I'd be safe here," Kim rushed on. "I've been here three years and then the inspector contacted me and now you and… that man."

"He's just like me." Edward replied earnestly. "Only different."

"But why does he wear that mask? Edward, it's not natural. Your hands, those I can understand, you were created but Edward, he's human. What's under that mask?"

There was silence from Edward. Erik suspected that the other man's politeness was overpowering his desire to be honest to Kim. How could he politely say that the only friend he had in the world besides Kim was hideously deformed? (They were friends? When had that happened? Erik much preferred to think of himself as a father figure.) And what right had he to judge deformity? The inner workings of the scissor-handed man's mind weren't hard to figure out.

"Erik is my friend." Edward finally managed, voice strangled and halting. Kim's forehead knit in a myriad of lines, Erik could almost _hear_ it do so.

"All right then." Kim replied, equally hushed. "But you should know, that inspector is coming here to interview me tomorrow."

"We will be gone by then." Edward replied.

"So soon?" Kim protested hopelessly. "I wanted to see you longer…"

Edward was silent and the sound of scissors clanking quietly was audible. Erik had learned to recognize this as a sign of nervousness by now and so, apparently, had Kim. She sighed with resignation.

"I love you." She said suddenly, desperately. This woman had been living alone, shunned for her adoration of a "different" man, and now, just when her love had returned, he was leaving. Life just wasn't fair. He could hear in all in her voice.

"I just wish I understood you, I wish I _knew_ you. Not in these moments where we actually see each other, but from day to day. Why can't there be normalcy Edward? Why can't we be safe, and held, and loved, from day to day?"

Erik closed his eyes. These kinds of questions were rhetorical when dealing with the 'unusual' such as himself and Edward. Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the street. His cold, which had seemed incapacitating earlier, was well-nigh forgotten now. Carton, their reluctant lawyer, was probably either working or drinking. What to do…

Cold fingers flexed against the air, pounding out imaginary chords. The luxuries of his organ, his morphine, and even the dank, cool, slightly moldy atmosphere of his former home called to him like an old friend. Going back there would be idiocy of the highest degree and Erik forcibly dismissed the thought.

"Erik?"

Metal scissors clattered together gently as the other man shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"I am sorry for Kim; she does not always know about… things. It took her a while to get used to me—"

"Don't worry. Compared to the average person, she's very accepting."

"I know… but…" His voice trailed away, still apologizing even in silence. "Are we leaving?"

"Soon. But you don't have to leave her yet."

"I…" The pause was broken. "She says we can stay here till tomorrow morning. Before Javert appears. But…"

"She doesn't want me sleeping under the same roof?"

"She is frightened of you." Came the hedging reply. Of course she was, Erik mused. What else could she be? Fright and curiosity went hand in hand and the woman was probably uncertain that she'd be able to curb her curiosity with her fright and she might try to remove his mask herself. Kim was that kind of woman.

"I will be in the hotel across the street."

"You'll come back, won't you?" Edward asked quickly as his companion turned to leave, dark eyes wide like coal in a snowman's white face.

"We still have to leave Paris. I'll be back early tomorrow. You and Kim can have time together."

A happy sigh of relief was forthcoming. As the black-haired phantom strode away, he shook his head. Edward might revel in his time with Kim, but it would probably be better if they had never met again at all. Erik got the feeling their love had been sudden and violent; as if they were caught up in a whirlwind, together one moment and torn apart the next. Plus, there was the matter of Edward's hands…

Erik was hideous without his mask, but when it was in place, he could at least hold someone in his arms. The scissor-handed man couldn't even do that.

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The hotel was every bit as seedy and dingy inside as it looked outside; a book you could truly judge by its cover. The innkeeper, if you could call him that, a moneybag and ledger were his only distinctions from the drunks who lounged around the bar. A single room with no interruptions was swiftly obtained and money changed hands. The phantom stole up to his room and slipped into dark dreams, devoid of angels, musical or otherwise.

"Oi! Erik!"

The room pounded. No, no, that was the door. Someone at the door. Pounding on it. A bad move when the room belonged to a homicidal phantom.

"Erik, I set up the caysh!"

And he sounded drunk. But their lawyer wasn't supposed to be drunk, he was supposed to be hard-working. That's what he got for hiring on intimidation. It would have been far simpler to manipulate the man's mind when he got sentimental with drink.

"Javert's going to declare you a hero and Edward a saint."

The door flew open and Erik stared down at the jackal, only three hours of sleep but looking as awake and intense as if he'd had nine. Sydney smiled and tipped his hat, eyes bright with intelligence but his movement slightly impaired.

"I've got it all figured out."

--and he passed out.

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Shorter chapter than I thought it was. ( Sorry to end so cliché but… I don't know how he's going to do this... Please review!


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